Fighting the FEAR, depression and BDP on a daily basis AND making my own bread. Bring it on 2016….

Tag Archives: 25 days 25 songs

Hmm. I don’t currently have a ‘best friend’ so am going to plump for a song that I have (literally) hit the floor for with many a bestie over the decades.

Don’t groan or roll your eyes with derision! I’ll wager that you’ve all done this dance, no matter how hard you’ve tried to block it from you memory.

It’s the one where you sit on the floor wedged up behind your mates/bloke/girl you fancy/boss at the annual Christmas party/best man at a wedding, then made a show of yourself by pretending to row, whilst some geezer (probably that Robin Thicke) grinds his willy against your coccyx.

I know it’s cringy and embarrassing, but I love this track and have absolutely no shame in admitting that I am an out and proud old skool soul/funk ‘rower’ and probably will be as long as I’m able to drag my ass up again without (a) showing my drawers, (b) dislocating my hip, or (c) throwing up on the person in front of me.

Altogether now! I defy you not to get your groove on!

I said, oops up-side your head, I said oops upside your head… 🙂

P.S. As this dance never made it out of the UK (no wonder) here is a very typical video of it being done at a party. Rules are:

1. Everyone has to be drunk and/or join in. Preferably both.

2. At least one person has to be out of synch or better still, get the moves totally wrong.

3. At least one person has to make an absolute show of themselves, like the old dear on the back who is very nearly losing her boob tube 🙂

I seriously cannot stand ‘Blurred Lines’, to the extent that I cannot bear to feature the video on my blog, so this slightly lame parody will have to do.

OK, Where to start?

The sexist/rapey/female objectification themes, are to my mind, the least offensive thing about it.

It’s the sheer fucking #SMUGNESS of Robin Thicke’s face throughout that makes me want to put my boot through the TV screen.

It’s not even that good a song. I doubt it would have sold in the volumes it did without the video and subsequent controversy and press coverage.

In fairness, I actually used to like his music, and own his first album which features a couple of really great tracks, but I kind of got an inkling that he was a bit of a #tosser after seeing him perform (well mime to) ‘Everything I Can’t Have’ on breakfast TV one morning. There he was dancing around, then suddenly he hissed to the backing band ‘C’mon boys, get into it!’. It was then that I noticed that they all ignored him and continued with set, stony expressions on their faces. Hmm. He must be a right #dickhead to evoke that kind of response from musicians, given they would presumably want to avoid pissing him off and/or not working for ITV again.

Then ‘Blurred Lines’ and that video came out, pretty much confirming my suspicions.

I wasn’t shocked by it. I’m a grown ass woman and have seen a bit of tit before. I just thought it was #pathetic.

Q. What kind of man has to pay women to trot naked around him and his (fully clothed) buds in order to feel good about himself?

A. The same kind that needs to write about the (alleged) size of his dick on a wall, while smirking and nodding at it.

What. A. #Twat.

As for you Pharrell, what were you thinking? Lucky for you that you came up with ‘Happy’ and redeemed yourself, otherwise you’d be on my shit list and at the mercy of my poisoned pen too.

Going back to Biggus Dickus, the third and final nail in his coffin was his notorious appearance at the Grammys, dressed as #Beetlejuice, grinning lasciviously as Miley Cyrus ground her tiny, spotty boys bum against #thebeast, whilst brandishing a big foamy finger and sticking her massive tongue in and out like a salamander on speed.

Urgh. #creepyunclerobin.

Not that his sleaziness was restricted to performance, you understand. What followed then was a series of rather public indiscretions, one showing him groping a fan’s bottom in the reflection of the mirror behind them whilst being photographed, which resulted in his long suffering wife, Paula, finally kicking him to the kerb.

So what does he do?

Apologize? Offer to go to counselling or see a shrink? Speak publicly about his appalling behaviour and his plans to remedy it in the hope of getting his marriage back on track?

No. He wrote a song called ‘Get Her Back’, featuring such lines as ‘All I wanna do is give you that thing’ (#obsessedwithhiswinky), ‘Keep her satisfied’ and ‘It’s so hard.’

It’s all I want, I want, I want, I want. My dick, my dick, my dick, my dick. I swear he’s like a dog in a man’s body.

No ‘I’m a two timing prick’, ‘I’m heading for a full blown midlife crisis’, or ‘I molested a minor’ lines featured in there at all.

Paula, if you take this jerk back, I don’t think anyone of our sex will ever forgive you!

No room for blurred lines here, you need to channel big Dolly P and go for a D.I.V.O.R.C.E.

He’s not just singing a cover to pad out an album or something. It’s the story of his life. His swan song, his epitaph. He sings of regrets, as he sits amongst his dusty photographs, sun bleached trophies and the rotting remains of a banquet, and of how, despite his successes, riches and luxurious lifestyle, he wished he’d done things differently, as he wife looks on, close to tears.

Within a year both of them were gone.

I can’t watch this video only once, as I am in equal parts, fascinated, moved and terrified by it.

I’m scared because it touches something dark, angry and despairing inside me, and the fear that when I’m his age, I’ll feel exactly the same way about my life.

Without all the success.

Because it feels too late to start again.

Then again, it always did, for as long as I remember.

I’ll watch it once again because it’s so beautiful, but then I’ll try and forget about it until the next time I happen upon it, when once again I’ll touch base with my darkness.

When tackling today’s challenge, I had no problem choosing, as whilst I love singing along to lots of songs, especially when driving, Elton John‘s ‘Philadelphia Freedom’ immediately came to mind.

I know it was written by Elton and Bernie Taupin at the behest of Billy Jean King as a tribute to Philly back in the ’70’s, so as a Brit it’s not a patriotism thing for me, but it’s such a joyful song, I know it word for word, and the sweeping strings just sends my spirits soaring whenever it comes on the radio or my Shuffle.

When Billy Jean first approached Bernie apparently he said ‘I can’t write a song about tennis!’, but I for one am glad he had a crack at it…

This song reminds me of someone whom I was once very close to, whom I fell out with spectacularly not so long ago. I chose it partly because we both love the Chi-Lites, and partly because we are actually still neighbours.

Not too close you understand. But close enough that it’s altogether feasible that we’ll bump into one another one day whilst out shopping or something.

When everything first kicked off I was beyond furious at her endless disrespect, mind fucking and tit for tat behaviour. I was quite frankly, braced and ready for battle and wrote this little ode about her:

Then later on as my temper cooled and I began to grow and mellow (well, a bit) I started to see both sides of the story and that maybe I played a part in some of our interactions, so I made a heartfelt overture to her, suggesting that we draw a line under the past and start afresh. I had changed a lot over the time we had been estranged and was willing to risk rejection or reunion as long as the thing shifted one way or another, as I was sick of hanging in limbo, consciously being ignored, and trying to ignore her, her vocal silence which contrasted greatly with her passive aggressive status’ on FB.

But instead of appreciating that I swallowed my pride and approached her, she was predictably terse and kept me on tenterhooks, so I wrote this second poem, only too aware of the likely outcome:

And I was right. Not only was my olive branch rejected, it was pretty much hurled back in my face with great force.

Oh dear.

To paraphrase this song, It was not that she couldn’t, she just didn’t want to…

But it wasn’t that big a surprise and I couldn’t have tolerated her behaving in exactly the same way moving forward, so it gave me permission to cut all ties with honour and integrity, block all contact and put the friendship to sleep for good.

Oddly enough her family are still sort of in touch and whilst I’m not entirely comfortable with this, they are nice people and I haven’t the heart to block them too, as they haven’t done anything wrong.

So, we’re unlikely to be walking in sunshine together from what I can tell.

‘El Tango de Roxanne’was the last song on my iTunes shuffle this afternoon, before the phone rang and I turned it off, and comes with a clip from Baz Luhrmann’s musical tour de force ‘Moulin Rouge!’

This dance sequence still gives me chills and reminds me so much of when I had little trust in men, and whilst I was never a whore, I probably had a similar glint of mocking distrust in my eyes as ‘Roxanne’ did when encountering a member of the opposite sex hell bent on seduction back in the day.

Nor can I tango like that. Unfortunately. As I’d give my eye teeth and a whole lot more besides to do so.

My therapy journey, recovering from Borderline Personality Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. I write for welldoing.org , for Planet Mindful magazine, and for Muse Magazine Australia, under the name Clara Bridges. Listed in Top Ten Resources for BPD in 2016 by goodtherapy.org.

My therapy journey, recovering from Borderline Personality Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. I write for welldoing.org , for Planet Mindful magazine, and for Muse Magazine Australia, under the name Clara Bridges. Listed in Top Ten Resources for BPD in 2016 by goodtherapy.org.